The Living (10 page)

I told him about the sophisticated economy we'd developed around our notepaper collections: the trading, the hype, the fortunes made and lost. He said we were all insane.

I finished my wine before he did. I was about to suggest another when he drained his glass and made to stand up. ‘Shall we go?'

Well, you don't leave me much choice, I thought, but I said nothing.

It was drizzling and chilly outside, with cruel little gusts that swiped at the edges of our clothes. We huddled along towards Dame Street, Matthew putting a stiff arm round my shoulders.

As we neared the taxi rank I said, ‘So, will we go back to mine, then?'

Matthew caught my eye, then looked at his feet. ‘Look, Cate, I'd better go home, OK?'

‘Why?' My heart plummeted – and I sounded so whiny.

He sighed. ‘I … look, I know I joke about it, but I really do need to get some work done over the weekend. My supervisor gave me a bit of a talking to this afternoon.'

I didn't know what to say. I had no idea how he'd react if I argued with him, asked him what work he expected to do tonight that couldn't be done tomorrow, told him we'd get up early, I'd make him breakfast. The barrier I'd felt before was firmly in place now. I stood and looked at him. How had I ever thought he was easy to communicate with?

‘I'd like to come back, Cate, you know I would, but I can't, not tonight,' Matthew said, and put a hand up to my face. I wanted to brush it away. I couldn't stand him knowing how put out I was. I felt unmasked, at his mercy.

I wasn't going to stand for that. Defiance flared in me. Fuck him, then, if he didn't want what I was offering. ‘Fine,' I said. ‘Give me a ring when you're less busy.'

‘I will.'

We kissed goodbye. The rain continued to fall. Matthew went
off to get his bus, and I stayed in the taxi queue, feeling deflated, thinking about going home alone to my tidy flat.

N
EXT MORNING,
A
IDAN
from downstairs knocked at my door to say that he and Sheila were off for three weeks' holiday in China, and would I mind picking up their post. I was glad I'd dressed before he'd rung the bell.

I arsed around the flat all morning, anxious and indecisive. Eventually, very late, I got it together sufficiently to cook myself some lunch.

While I was cooking I had the radio on, keen to fill my thoughts with something other than Matthew's abrupt departure last night. The news story of the day was an announcement by Unionist parties that they would consider withdrawing from the Northern Irish Assembly unless dissident Republican groups made it clear that they were ceasing operations. Level-voiced experts examined the issue from every angle. I could imagine my parents and Mícheál listening in Ardee, airing their heartfelt opinions on this latest evidence of Unionist obduracy, but I couldn't kindle in myself any of the outrage that would have been second nature in my teens.

I switched the radio off.

My phone glared at me from the dining table as I ate. I glared back. Matthew's number danced through my head, singing itself, mocking me. I couldn't ring. He'd tell me to go away.

We'd agreed that he was to ring me. That was important.

Maybe I could drive out to Kilmacud first, and then ring. Say
I just happened to be passing, thought I'd call in – if he'd tell me exactly where his house was. I hadn't even got his address yet. I cursed my lack of guts.

I picked up the phone and dialled the number quickly, before I could change my mind.

‘Hi, this is Matthew. I can't take—' I killed it. There was no way I was leaving a message.

I threw myself into the armchair and rang Denise instead, for the first time in weeks.

‘Hello?' She sounded sleepy.

‘Hi, it's me. Cate.'

‘Cate! How are you? Sorry, I didn't recognize your voice there.'

‘Did I get you out of bed?'

‘A bit, yeah. What time is it?'

‘Nearly half three.'

‘You're fucking kidding me. God, I'm such a slob.'

We swapped stories: my job, Denise's social life, her doctorate. Her parents had been up from Ardee for the week. She and John-Paul were planning a weekend away. I told her about Paula's grand exit at Bell Books, did an impression of George's reaction. I said nothing about the MacDevitt book. I was regretting having mentioned it to Matthew last night, given George's sensitivity about it, the reluctant trust he was placing in me.

‘So what else is new?' Denise asked through a yawn.

I hesitated. ‘Well, I'm kind of seeing someone.'

‘Really?' Eager now. ‘Tell me more. Who is he?'

‘New boy in the choir.' I filled in some details; Denise made appreciative noises at appropriate intervals. It was good to talk to her.

She said the gang were meeting for drinks in Dundrum later on, and did I want to come. I'd love to.

I
HADN
'
T BEEN OUT
with the college gang in weeks. I was nearly afraid I'd have forgotten how to talk to them. I sat on the bus to Dundrum, watching raindrops slant across the misted windows. We rattled through the night, and suddenly I wanted to be home in my bed, curled up under the covers, warm and silent. But I'd told Denise I'd be there.

I thanked the driver as I got out. He was a black African, but his ‘Have a good night, love' was pure Dublin. The rain had eased off, and the wind seemed to have died down. It felt almost mild, in that wild October way.

I'd just have one or two drinks and then go home.

I reached the pub door, its stained glass panels glowing golden from the light inside. As I pushed it open, sound washed over me, the bubbling noise of a hundred conversations. The air was thick and warm.

Over at the bar I saw the ever-comely Fenian Mick, a grin on his face and his red curls bouncing. He waved a greeting. ‘Cate,
abú
! How're'ya?' As I reached him he was gathering pints into his big hands.

‘Wait a minute and I'll help you carry those down,' I said, then turned and miraculously caught the attention of the barwoman.
Gin and tonic, I decided, would be the drink of the evening. Just not too many of them.

‘So what's the craic?' Fenian Mick asked. He nudged me. ‘Come here, Dee says you've a new man.'

‘God, news travels fast. Yeah, I suppose I have.'

I paid for my drink and picked up the remainder of Fenian Mick's order, and we wove our way to the back of the lounge where the others were sitting. Denise was there with John-Paul, and Pat and Elaine and Noreen and Liddy. A ragged cheer went up when they spotted me, followed by a lull as I helped distribute the round of drinks. The conversation picked up speed again, a tumbling parade of in-jokes, puns and one-liners, weaving and circling around a mercurial sequence of topics. I synched easily with it. I might not go to the pub with the gang so often these days, but I was apparently still fluent.

I was sitting beside Elaine, who after a while asked how I was. I told her about work – again omitting to mention MacDevitt – noticing that I was using the same phrases I'd used on the phone to Denise earlier. It was funny to think of myself, out in the big world, explaining what it was like to someone who hadn't yet ventured there.

I noticed Fenian Mick turning to listen to us. When I did my take-off of George he said, ‘Sounds like my dad,' and I felt as if I'd stepped too close to him. He'd been very kind about the crush I'd had on him in college, though he hadn't felt the same way. He was one of the good guys.

I took another sip of my drink. The ice had all but melted, and the remaining liquid was tart and tepid.

‘So, who's this new fella, then, Cate?' Noreen said, leaning across from Elaine's other side and tapping me on the forearm.

As though a light-switch had been flicked, I had an audience. Fenian Mick, Elaine and Noreen were looking straight at me, and the others had noticed too. ‘Matthew?' I said, and something caught in my throat; I had to stop to clear it. ‘He's lovely,' I went on, coming out of the cough, tossing off the verdict before I could hesitate, search for the right words.

‘Dee says he's a Brit,' Noreen said, a little slurrily.

‘Well, yeah, he's from Bristol.'

‘I can't imagine you going with a Brit,' said Noreen.

There was a tiny, howling silence, then Fenian Mick said, ‘Trinity made her soft,' and they all laughed. ‘And why not, sure, if she wants him?' A memory swam into focus: Fenian Mick and Noreen having a massive rant about Queen Elizabeth's visit to Trinity. They'd wanted to organize a protest, but it never came off.

Fenian Mick slapped the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Now, come on, Cate, give us the low-down. Name, rank, serial number. All that craic.'

‘Well, OK, he's called Matthew, as I said, and he's a new tenor in Carmina Urbana—'

‘Oho! A choirboy? Say no more,' said Elaine.

‘And he's a postgrad in UCD.'

‘Ah, he must be all right, so,' said Noreen. ‘Matthew what? Would we know him? What's he doing?'

‘Taylor,' I said. ‘History.'

‘Who's his supervisor?'

‘Professor Lawless.'

‘Lawless? Are you serious?' Fenian Mick guffawed. ‘Well, whatever about
you
, Cate, I can't see John Lawless getting into bed with a Brit – he's a total 'RA-head. God, I'd love to be a fly on the wall at those meetings.'

‘He's not
writing
on Republicanism, though, is he?' Elaine asked.

I hesitated. I knew how it would sound to them – how unlikely they'd be to accept the notion that a Brit could have anything useful to contribute on the topic.

‘You should've brought him along tonight,' said Noreen, ‘so we could all have a gawk at him.'

‘Check him out, you mean?' I felt uncomfortable now at the thought of what they'd all make of Matthew. Or he of them, come to that.

‘Ah, no, you know what I mean,' Noreen said.

‘I didn't think of asking him,' I said. ‘We're not really at that stage yet.' I could feel myself closing in, a flower in the dark.

‘Well, how long have you been seeing him?' Noreen wasn't letting it go.

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘A few weeks, just.' It was exactly five weeks tonight, I was well aware. Noreen made a dubious face, took another swig of her pint.

I said, ‘I think he'd be a bit overwhelmed if I just brought him here and plonked him down in the middle of you lot, all at once.'

‘Ah, that's shite,' said Noreen. She looked away, her lip curled in disgust.

‘Look,' said Denise, ‘the man's entitled to be a bit scared of meeting a bunch of hooligans like us.'

‘Exactly,' I said. ‘Thank you.'

‘But he has to be willing to meet your friends,' Noreen insisted.

‘There's time for that,' said Denise. ‘The key questions for the moment are: is he straight, does he wash, does he ring when he says he will?'

‘All of the above, as far as I can tell,' I said, regaining my poise to some extent.

‘Well, that's a good start,' said Denise.

‘Going on past form, you mean?' I caught her eye, and we giggled. The messy darkness seemed to recede a little.

‘Who's for more drink?' asked Fenian Mick, rising. I handed him the money for another G&T.

Four drinks later, I stood on the footpath opposite the pub, shivering, hugging my coat around me. The rain was at bay, although the surface of the street gleamed with wetness like a beach after a wave.

I was none too steady: the world heaved and flickered unless I kept a close eye on it. John-Paul had said I'd easily pick up a taxi on the road. The others were staying put until they were thrown out, then probably walking back to Denise's with a carry-out.
I didn't regret not joining them. I was ready for my bed. As I'd got drunker I'd felt less and less part of the evening, more exposed, eroded.

I watched a car pull out of the pub car park and pause at the kerb, though there was no other car moving on the street that I could see. It rolled slowly out on to the road and lumbered along a little way to stop outside a late-night shop. I turned my head just in time to hail a taxi that was speeding to catch the lights.

The driver was young, distracted, listening to dance music. ‘Do you mind?' he asked, gesturing towards the radio, and I told him he was grand, no problem. We didn't converse as we waited at the traffic lights. The driver whistled through his teeth, accompanying the repetitive riff of the music.

As we began to move again I looked out the window at the car sitting outside the brightly lit shop. I had a wild suspicion about it. The car had its head- and tail-lights on, and a man sat in the driver's seat, smoking. As we passed I caught the glint from his glasses. I snatched a look at the licence plate: 52845. I'd been right.

We drove on. I shifted in my seat so I could just see a bit of the road behind us in the wing mirror. There was a vehicle behind us now, all right, but the power of its headlights meant that there was no chance of glimpsing the number. It looked like the same car. Maybe I should tell the driver that I thought this car was following me, ask his advice. Maybe he'd turn out to be an expert at losing a following vehicle, weaving and turning, steering wheel wrenched
from side to side and tyres squealing, the dance music turned up high for a soundtrack.

He'd think I was mad.

It had started to rain again.

I let the taxi go at the end of my road. I looked round as it drove off, but saw no dark car pulling up nearby. I hugged my coat around me and started to walk down the narrow cul-de-sac.

The car was sitting outside my house with its headlights on. My heart jumped, and for a second I thought I might throw up. I had to keep walking. To hesitate would be to suggest that I was somehow in the wrong. ‘It's just routine,' I said aloud, and heard the distortion of alcohol in my voice. ‘Oh, god, I am too drunk for this,' I whispered.